Fat Friday

The house wakes up slowly. Something big but good happened here yesterday. Two tables bear quiet testimony in the living room and dining room, still covered with tablecloths, carrying candles, half-full candy bowls, a few chocolate wrappers, a few stains. More big, good things will happen today, but not with the intensive industry of the day before: Carol basting the bird, Jacques ministering to the gravy, Norman uncorking the wine, Jacqueline expediting the kale, Mimi midwifing the sweet potatoes, Mark emceeing the pies. Today, Fat Friday, is pure benefit. A languid breakfast, a pre-ordained lunch, a smaller version of last night's supper. It's Boxing Day without presents, cushioned by a half-day and holiday on one side, a weekend on the other. It has no agenda, other than maybe a movie or, if you like, a ticket to visit December, which is setting up on November's turf today, five days early, hope you don't mind. No, it's fine. November will put on a flannel shirt and go for a walk. Loosen a few more leaves. Eat an apple, toss the core. Finish up.